


Anger Mismanagement

by OftenWrongSoong



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Angst, Daforge if you want, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:22:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftenWrongSoong/pseuds/OftenWrongSoong
Summary: Post 'First Contact', and someone is struggling to come to terms with the rumors surrounding the events of the Borg infiltration of the Enterprise.





	Anger Mismanagement

The door to his quarters slid open and he stalked in, gritting his teeth. He paced for a while, agitated, as his gaze swept over the trinkets and souvenirs, paintings and pot plants. He stopped in front of a bookcase and picked up the bow of his violin. He studied it for a moment before folding it, then shredding it to splinters, his jaw clenching and unclenching as his slender fingers reduced the wood to a shattered mess and spilled the hairs across the floor, pale hands powdered with rosin.

He picked up the violin and with methodical, surgical thoroughness, fractured and split the delicate wood, pressing his thumbs through the carcass to grind the fragments into his palms. He dropped the shattered instrument, and with slow deliberate movements crushed the remains into the carpet with his foot, and the strings writhed and shivered under his heel.

He looked up and around at the room. He felt... better. Good. But, not good enough. The rage and hate still pounded through his head, beating against his rationality and urging him onwards. He had heard that breaking things might help, but the realization struck that he was still in control. And he did not want to be. Was not the point of emotion that it overrode ration and logic? That it would ‘take one over’, compel them to behave in a manner contrary to their normal character?

He was angry. Very well, so be it. Be angry.

Really, truly, angry.

He stood for a moment and simply allowed himself to _feel,_ let the emotions wash over him and change him, altering pathways and switching circuits and programs on and off as it rerouted his thought processes.

He turned to the bookcase and bought his fist down in a driving hammer blow, spilling ornaments and novels to the floor. He picked up his books and shredded them to confetti. Every knick-knack was hurled into the wall opposite, some shattering, some embedding themselves in the steel plating with the wild force of his rage.

His grasping hands found a painting, a work in progress that would never now be completed. The frame cracked, the canvas tore, and the oil paint flaked away in bright fragments as the sunset hit the wall. The easel followed it, collapsing to the floor like a crippled animal as he tore the tubes of paint to shreds, splattering himself and his surroundings with pigment and hurling the remains aside.

He worked his way through his paintings, thorough and ruthless in his destruction as image after image was savagely rent and torn.

The furniture did not escape his wrath as he rampaged through the room, table, chairs, and couch obliterated as he finally allowed himself to give in to the seething tide of anger cascading through him. The terminals on his desk crunched between his hands and the screens cracked and exploded as they were flung away. He pulled the replicator from the wall and buried his hands in its innards, rending the wiring and circuitry in a shower of sparks, filling the room with the acrid stench of ruptured and smoking wiring. He gripped the jagged edges of paneling and peeled the wall from the support struts, punching holes in the buckled metal sheeting, and it screeched in torment and warped under his pummeling knuckles. A line of holes soon adorned his quarters, each blow made with supreme strength, fortified by towering rage. He was vaguely aware of an unfamiliar and unexpected sound, a sort of shrieking howl, but was unable to identify it until he moved into the small bathroom he had installed for the comfort of his organic friends. He gripped the small sink and snapped it, stepped back, looked up into the mirror to smash it, and saw Lore.

He froze, his left arm pulled back ready to obliterate the silvered glass, fist balled. The noise had stopped as soon as he closed his mouth.

In that moment, for that fraction of a second before astonishment and fear wrote themselves onto his features, his resemblance to his brother was shocking. The savage delight in the gleaming eyes, the wry twist to the mouth, lips pulled to a leering rictus grin. His hair was wild, his uniform torn and splattered with paint, dusted with splinters and powdered glass. His knuckles had ruptured and split, and the bright lights of the bathroom glinted on the exposed metal.

He lowered his arm. Exposed. That’s how he felt. As if someone had stripped away the sheepskin and found, underneath, a wolf.

He reached up to his own face, dragged his fingers down his cheek leaving bright traceries of paint, and watched his reflection as the synthetic skin shifted over his metal skull. He increased the pressure on his cheek and saw the faint dimples and lines emerge where his circuitry lurked under his fake flesh. He reached out to his double and carefully snapped off the corner of the mirror. Data watched himself hold his chin in his hand and tilt his face up and to the side, his other hand lifting the shimmering blade. With a deadly calm he sliced a hunk of bioplast away from his face, peeling the flap down to his jaw. Warnings sounded in his consciousness as damage control sensors kicked into life and his thought process returned to its normal analytical clarity.

He examined his face in his reflection. Just the same as Lore, underneath. That was what it came down to, in the end. The same circuitry, same construction. The same face. The fragment of mirror tumbled from his fingers into the broken bowl of the sink.

He stumbled back into his room to lean against the ravaged wall, and slowly slid down to sit with his knees drawn to his chest. He was calm now, thinking again, and he looked around his ruined quarters with detached curiosity. The anger had fled, but he wasn’t sure he felt happy. Not yet. Just... the absence of the anger, that consuming, burning rage. Feeling nothing was better than that, he supposed.

The doors opened, and Geordi walked in. He stood for a moment with his arms folded, blue and silver eyes taking in the devastation.

“I believe it is customary to request entry.” Said Data. Geordi looked over at the android slumped against the wall.

“Would you have let me in?” He replied. Data didn’t answer, hadn’t turned his head to see who had entered, but was simply staring at the hole in the wall where the replicator had been. 

Geordi sat down next to Data, shuffling some debris aside to lean against the wall. There was silence for a time, punctuated only occasionally by the fizzing of crackling sparks spat out by the ruined electrical equipment or the random clattering or tinkling of some piece of the destruction settling. 

Finally Geordi turned his head. His bright eyes fixed on Data’s face, studying the open wound.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“I think...” Data looked around the room, “I have said everything I need to.”

“Hmm.” Geordi leaned his head back against the paneling. “You angry about something?”

He waited, arms folded across his knees. Data opened his mouth, drew a breath as if to speak, then clamped his jaw shut, blowing the air out through his nose in a snort that was almost a laugh. He rolled his eyes to meet Geordi’s.

“Some of the new crew members were conversing in Engineering while we were conducting repairs. They were some distance away, and I can only conclude that they assumed that I could not hear them.”

“Uh-huh?”

“They were talking about me. They assumed that I had been assimilated, that the captain had gallantly rescued me, that I had been in league with... Her. That I was a coward.”

“Uh-huh. Did you correct them, tell them what really happened?”

“I... I could not.” Data closed his eyes. “I have not told many people. It is... difficult. But, they made me remember. And then I became angry.”

“Why did it make you angry?”

“Because they do not understand. They make wild assumptions based on the merest shreds of information and jump to conclusions about events that they know nothing about, all the while disparaging me as some sort of conspirator, a traitor, as if...” He stopped. He realized that his voice had risen, and his hands were clenched into fists. He forced himself to relax, spread his fingers out to grip his knees.

“So I came away. I was afraid that if I went to talk to them I might be angry and shout, and that would not be appropriate behavior for an officer.”

“You did the right thing.” Geordi reached across, palm upwards, and Data took his hand, lacing their fingers together. The silence stretched.

“Geordi?” Data turned to look at the engineer’s dark face. “Do you think... this is how Lore felt? All the time? Do you think that I too may...”

“Data, you’re nothing like him.” Geordi quirked a smile. “For a start, he would have told those engineers where to go, and then he would have done this...” he gestured to the ruined room, “but down in Main Engineering.”

“Nevertheless, the mere fact that I am capable of such an act of destruction...”

“But you came to a safe place. You got away from other people, and you didn’t just lash out at the first thing you saw. You were still... you.”

Data contemplated this for a moment, his eyes distant. Geordi looked away, marveling at the thoroughness of the devastation. It seemed that not a single item had been left unscathed. He almost didn’t hear Data when he spoke, the androids murmuring voice low and strained.

“What if they were right? Perhaps I could have done more, fought harder. Maybe I _am_ a coward. Perhaps that I why I became so angry. Because they were right.”

Geordi let go of Data’s hand and stood, brushing down the seat of his pants. He walked slowly over to the desk, and pushed the detritus around with his foot until he uncovered what he sought. He picked up the box and walked slowly back to where Data huddled, and dropped it into his lap.

Geordi watched Data fix his gaze on the display case. The glass was shattered, but the shining medals inside were intact.

“You remember why you got those? Why you kept them? You tell me again how you’re a coward, and I’ll call you a damn liar.” Geordi raised an eyebrow. “You think Lore could’ve got any of those? Done any of the things you’ve done to earn ‘em?” 

Data stared fixedly at the medals. Slowly, he said, “I think that the only way that Lore would have had of acquiring any medals would have been by stealing them from me.”

Geordi barked a laugh. “Right! So get up.” He held out his hand and Data took it, allowing Geordi the illusion of assisting him to rise. Geordi looked him up and down.

“Come on, I’ll fix you up. Looks superficial anyways, so we can go to my quarters. Fresh uniform, then Ten Forward, I could do with a drink.” He stretched, rolling his shoulders. Data looked at the medals again, before tossing them aside to join the remains of the rest of his belongings. Geordi clapped him on the shoulder.

“Y’know, I think I might start spreading a few rumors down in Engineering about what really happened. Nothing too personal,” he added hastily as he saw Data’s brow furrow, “just a few... factual corrections. And if I catch any of them badmouthing a senior officer, I’ll get ‘em for insubordination.” He grinned widely. “Come on, let’s go.”

Data looked round his quarters one more time, as if he needed to imprint it into his memory banks.

“Very well. Computer, end program.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a sort of self-therapy, catharsis if you will. Better than smashing up my own stuff. I wish I had a holodeck, though. There may be more stuff in similar vein coming out soon, until my meds kick in.


End file.
